


Pink Carnation and a Pick-Up Truck

by PaxieAmor



Series: I Know That You're In Love With Him [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: For Once This Is In No Way Marty's Fault, Lonely Teenage Broncin' Buck, M/M, Sequel, why do i do these things to myself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxieAmor/pseuds/PaxieAmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Carnation and a Pick-Up Truck

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [American Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/375721) by [PaxieAmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxieAmor/pseuds/PaxieAmor). 



> This is a direct sequel to "[American Pie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/375721)", so if you haven't read that, please do so. I'll be here, waiting.
> 
> Kudos and/or comments make my brain explode, so if you're a fan of that sort of thing, please kudos/comment away!

Phil Coulson isn’t one to be affected by the same things as the rest of the human race. ET going home, the death of Ol’ Yeller, kittens doing adorable things… yeah, things like that never seemed to affect him like they did other people. Recently, however, that changed.

“I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck! With a pink carnation and a pick-up truck!” Phil—who had been in a deep, restful sleep—felt his eyes snap open in what could be described as sheer panic. His mind was no longer in the apartment he kept just outside the city; it was back in Afghanistan, focused on rescuing Clint Barton.

It goes without saying that Clint’s mission with Natasha in Afghanistan was _not_ supposed to end with his incarceration. It was supposed to be a simple extraction; a general’s daughter had ended up at the wrong party and needed to be brought home. It was the kind of assignment that SHIELD’s two master assassins were more than capable of.

Except the daughter wouldn’t leave without her friend.

Except Natasha got shot on the way to the rendezvous point.

Except Clint _let_ himself get captured in order to give the others a chance to escape.

It took Phil two weeks just to find out which prison Clint was being held in and another two were spent planning how to get him out before he was executed; three days of that last week were for infiltrating the prison. Everything was in place and he was set to burst into the room just before the electricity to the prison was shut down. That wasn’t scheduled for another five minutes, meaning right now all Phil could do was lean against the wall outside the viewing area of the execution room—it was the perfect place to be, as no one was going to be in there—and wait.

His ear piece was tuned to two frequencies; the first was connected to the rest of the team, which would remain silent until there was an emergency. The second was tuned into the microphones they had planted in the hallway leading to and in the execution room. Phil had them put there so he would know if the execution was being delayed or moved up for any reason. He expected to hear guards making jokes about the ‘stupid American’ they would be ~~murdering~~ executing today.

He didn’t expect to hear Clint singing “American Pie” as he was escorted to the execution room.

Phil shook his head as he heard the younger man’s rough baritone echo through the hallway. He was singing to best of his ability—which,, according to anyone who’d heard him sing, was a pretty damn good ability—but even without seeing him, Phil could tell he was hamming it up a little.

“Can music save your mortal soul… and can you teach me how to dance…” There was an intentional pause here; not one that was part of the song, but one that the singer had added for dramatic effect. Clearly, Barton was about to do something stupid. “Real slow?” Phil could hear the rhythm of everyone’s footsteps changing, combined with a rough, defiant “Ha ha!” from Clint.

Phil couldn’t resist allowing a grin to curl his lips as he made a mental note to ask exactly what the big idiot had done.

“Well, I know that you’re in love with him and I saw you dancing in the gym!” The grin was now a full blown smile as Phil remembered their night out before that mission. Clint Barton could shoot an arrow in ways that would put Robin Hood to shame, could sing like a star and was actually a pretty decent cook. Clint Barton, however, couldn’t dance to save his life; Phil’s toes ached just from thinking about how many times they’d been stepped on. Practice makes perfect, however, and Phil planned on giving him a lot more practice. Likely starting the moment they got back to New York.

The singing continued; Phil could tell they had entered the execution room by the way someone, probably Clint, had kicked the door. It was a good way to give them a time line; it wouldn’t be much longer now. Phil closed his eyes to have them ready for the darkness he was soon to enter and readied his side arm, removing it from his holster and taking the safety off.

“But I knew I was out of luck… the day the music died…” He almost dropped the gun when he heard Clint’s voice change; he was singing slower, the cocky confidence was gone… it barely sounded like Clint, like _his_ Clint anymore.

“I started singin'… bye, bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry… them good ole boys were drinking whiskey in Rye, singin' this'll be the day that I die.”

Phil clenched his eyes tight to stop the tears forming in them from falling. It didn’t occur to him until now that Clint honestly thought he wasn’t going to make it out of that room…

“This'll be the day… that I die…”

Phil Coulson was suddenly back in his apartment, laying face up in bed, staring at the ceiling. Clint wasn’t beside him.

The shower was running. Phil fumbled his way out of bed and walked into the bathroom. He then went to the shower, pulled open the curtain and pinned Clint to the wall, earning a startled yelp from the younger agent before kissing him silent. The kiss was sloppy, yet completely fulfilling; Clint opened his mouth instantly, allowing Phil to slide his tongue inside. His hands found their way into Clint’s longer than normal hair, half holding on for everything he hand, half just running his fingers through, all just _wanting_ to hold his archer in his arms any way he could…

A moment or two later, Clint broke the kiss, holding Phil’s face in his hand. They were both underneath the shower head; Clint used his thumb to wipe a few droplets away from Phil’s eyes.

“What is so important,” he began, “that you had to jump in here in your _Captain America_ boxers and kiss me?” Clint looked down at the dark blue boxer shorts, now soaking wet, with Cap’s shield front and center. “Seriously, no Hawkeye boxers? Do I have to worry about you ru-”

“Don’t sing that song anymore.” Clint’s eyes snapped back up to lock with Phil’s; they were confused at first, but soon widened with terrifying realization.

“Aw, Christ, Phil, you _heard_ me.” It wasn’t a question, but Phil nodded in reply like it was. He wasn’t aware he was shaking, let alone so violently, until Clint wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. Phil just stood there for a minute before returning the embrace, burying his face into Clint’s shoulder.

“Just… please, Clint…”

“I won’t,” Clint promised, kissing the top of his head and continuing to hold him tight. “I promise.” Phil relaxed against him, but didn’t let him go until long after the shower began to run cold.

If Clint ever noticed the drops on Phil’s face _weren’t_ from the shower, he never said a word.


End file.
